


locks of love

by daltonacademyfightclub



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Dean also reads romance novels, Dean is a good hairdresser, Friends to Lovers, Hair Braiding, Hair Washing, M/M, Roman is all about that aesthetic, Slice of Life, connection not erection, enough coconut oil to drown a rat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 20:03:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5261636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daltonacademyfightclub/pseuds/daltonacademyfightclub
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roman Reigns considered his most treasured and worthy-of-poetry physical characteristic to be his hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	locks of love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Neffectual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neffectual/gifts).



Despite being told by Dean that women (and men, for that matter) could write sonnets about his light gray eyes or strong, sturdy body, Roman Reigns considered his most treasured and worthy-of-poetry physical characteristic to be his hair. Unusually for his family, he was born with the gift of naturally-soft, wavy locks and had grown up being lectured by all his female relatives on how to take care of his blessing. His mother in particular was the one who encouraged him to grow it out - “you can do much more with long hair than with short hair, my love,” she’d always reminded him when he considered chopping it off - and got him on the coconut oil bandwagon years before the fad took root in the health and beauty industries.

Because of all the fuss about his hair, Roman had adopted a handful of superstitions. He’d heard that you weren’t supposed to wash your hair before the day of an exam, and so he spent all of his finals weeks in college with his hair pulled in a ponytail and tucked inside of a baseball cap. He never got his hair trimmed on Sunday (“the devil will be with you all week”) or Friday (“you cut them for sorrow”), and he always held his brush or wide-toothed comb extra tight in his hand as he ran through it, as dropping either one was a sign of impending disappointment.

When he told Dean about all this one night in their hotel room after a shower, all he did was make a face. “You didn’t wash your hair for the better part of a _week_?”

“Like you’re the authority on personal hygiene and self-grooming,” Roman shot back with a snort. He reached in his bag, one hand on the towel around his waist, and pulled out a T-shirt he snatched from one of the merch tables backstage. That was one of the good things about having so many T-shirt designs: it meant more personalized hair towels to take with him around the world.

“Look,” he continued, tightening his towel-skirt and bowing his head to wrap the shirt around his hair into a turban. “You can’t deny that my hair is honestly one of my defining features. If they had me wrestle shirtless and I had short hair, I would just be random wrestler #3 or something.” He stood back up straight, checking his reflection in the mirror. “Or worse, I’d draw even more comparisons to Dwayne, and we both know I don’t need that shit in my life right now.”

“True,” Dean admitted, stretching out on the bed to lay his head against the pillows. Roman could see him obviously staring at his ass in the mirror’s reflection. “And you look damn good with all that hair too.” He yawned, mouth smirking after he did so. “Of course, it looks better when it’s not dripping wet… like it is every damn time you come to the ring nowadays.”

Roman made a overdramatic pouting face, turning to face Dean. “It’s an _aesthetic choice_ ,” he explained to Dean for the umpteenth time. “It makes me look tougher.”

“Nah, man,” Dean said with a chuckle, “it makes you look like you just barely made it out of the shower in time for your match.”

Roman glared at him and walked back to the bathroom. “You gonna help me with the coconut oil this time or are you just gonna sit there and talk shit ‘bout my glorious mane?” He sat down on the top of the toilet, knowing that Dean would come in in a minute.

“Talkin’ shit’s so much fun, though,” Dean whined as Roman heard the bed squeak and footsteps come plodding across the carpet to the bathroom. “‘Sides, you know I’m just teasing.”

“I do,” Roman replied, turning on the seat so he was riding it sidesaddle and when his head was back, his hair fell back in and around the sink. “Now lather me up, would you?” He heard the twist of a jar opening and closed his eyes expectantly.

“Y’know,” Dean said as Roman felt his head being slowly massaged by Dean and his surprisingly nimble fingers, “this is pretty damn erotic, me handling your hair and all. Like the beginning of one of those romance novels.”

“Did you steal that Celtic romance novel that Becky was reading backstage today? _Over Her Glens_ or something?” Roman smiled, already having known the answer as he’d caught Dean bookmarking Becky’s page for her before the show started.

“ _First_ of all,” Dean corrected him, “it’s _Over Highland Glen_ , don’t get it twisted.” When Roman started laughing out loud, he popped him on the forehead lightly. “Don’t be rude. The author really has a way with words.”

“I’m sure they do, ‘throbbing members’ and all,” Roman quipped, earning another pop. “Hey! Personal hairdressers do _not_ assault their clients, Dean. This is not what I don’t pay you for.”

Dean snorted, shifting his hands down to dig slightly at the temples, looking down at Roman in the eye. “You love me.”

Roman looked right back. “I do,” was all he replied, and that was enough for Dean. Roman knew that by now. As much as Dean enjoyed other people’s words in writing and movies, he didn’t exactly prefer having a lot directed _at_ him. It made him anxious, he explained one day when he stopped Roman one night in bed from comforting him verbally after he lost his match.

“Just… just hold me, okay?” Dean had commanded him as he burrowed further down into Roman’s chest, arms pulled up to create a makeshift barrier anyway. “I’ve got enough going on up here without you adding to it - no offense.”

Since then, the two of them didn’t talk much about feelings, preferring to show their love in a myriad of different ways both in and out of the sack. Whether it was picking up the tab at the bar, doing the other’s laundry, or what Dean was helping with right now with Roman’s hair, their love was silent but enduring after all they’d been through.

After Dean had sufficiently permeated Roman’s hair, scalp, his fingers, and the entire room with coconut, he put the shirt from before underneath the mass of shiny black curls and wrapped Roman’s hair up the way he’d seen his brother - boyfriend? lover? Labels bothered Dean too - do it hundreds of times. Roman felt the shirt tighten around his hairline as Dean twisted and curled it into place, hooked at the back of his head. “Finally got it right on the first try,” Dean said proudly, bending his head for Roman to peck him on the lips in both thanks and congratulations.

Roman kissed him lightly, lifting an arm to hold Dean’s head and lips against his right before he pulled away, smiling when Dean added a little tongue to mix things up. When he slung his arm back down in front of him, Dean pulled back and grinned devilishly.

“Now I have you captive for at least an hour.”

“You’re gonna make me watch some shitty kung fu movie with you, aren’t you.” Roman grunted as he sat back up, patting the side of his head to make sure everything was stable up top. “You’re a punk, y’know that?”

“But I’m _your_ punk,” Dean reminded him with an even wider grin, heading back into the main room to change the channel. “Time to get my dubbed Chinese films on.”

Roman just clucked his tongue in light disdain, taking his typical place against Dean on top of the covers while they watched. The only downside of the post-oiling towel turban was that he couldn’t rest his head on Dean’s shoulder without fear of hair falling out. Tangling their feet together would have to do.

About an hour and a half later, after the flying guillotine of death killed the last of the rogue warriors (or something; Roman wasn’t paying too much attention), Roman got up and headed back to the bathroom to wash his hair out and pat it dry. On his way there, he knelt by his bag to pick up a little plastic bag from the side pocket to take in there with him.

“Whatcha got there, Rome?” Dean asked from where he remained on the bed, this time sprawled out in the space formerly occupied by Roman, probably in order to soak up as much of his residual body heat and scent as possible. “What’s in the bag?”

“Beads.”

“Huh?” Dean said, making the same face that he had when Roman had told him about his exam week superstition. “Why d’you got those?”

“I was talking to Kofi backstage couple nights ago,” Roman told him as he turned the water back on again to wash the oil out. “I was talking about what I do with my hair and he told me about what he does with his. Lately he’s been doing protective hairstyles, and he told me about adding beads in for decoration and braid blocking.”

“Hmm,” was the noise Dean made, cocking his head. “You think that’ll work on you? I mean, your hair’s thick, but not kinky-thick, if you catch my drift.”

Roman nodded. “Yeah, I know what you mean, but mine’s pretty much for decoration,” he explained over the loud spray. He lifted his head back out of the sink basin and wrung it out by hand, gripping tightly. “Would you mind coming in here and bringing me another shirt?”

“Your wish is my command,” Dean quoted, doing just that and staying in the bathroom doorway to watch. “You want my help with the beads?”

“Helpful to a fault,” Roman said fondly, knowing that Dean would blush like a schoolboy but not challenge the compliment. “You wanna do a French down the middle of my head and weave in these?” Roman picked up the bag and shook it, the little metal pieces clinking together.

“Sounds good to me,” Dean replied, taking the bag from him and heading back to the bedroom as Roman patted down his hair to make it as dry as he could. “We’re doing it on the bed, though.”

“Fine by me,” Roman agreed, following suit and going back to the bed and sitting where he had been only a few minutes before. “Don’t tug,” he warned.

Dean let out a _pssht_ sound, opening up the bag and picking a few beads out that he seemed to like. (Roman noticed that they happened to be the shiniest of the bunch, but said nothing.) “Gimme some credit, Ro. I’m an old pro at this beauty shop shit with you by now.”

Roman just rolled his eyes and smiled again, closing his eyes as Dean sat down behind him and put his legs around Roman’s body, having the larger man in front of him between his thighs. Dean’s hands worked fast, and Roman could feel the beads slipping on at random intervals, the slight accidental tug letting him know they were there.

While he usually wasn’t one for sappy metaphors, Roman really did consider his hair a big part of his identity and his overall self. Maybe his hair, long and flowing but smooth at the same time, could represent his life in the now. And the beads were moments in history that stuck with him, changed him for the worse or for the better, but affected him nonetheless. And maybe while this was primarily his story to tell, he had a co-narrator that was more than happy to walk alongside him in life, helping things intertwine and adding a few ornaments of time along the way.

What had seemed like only a minute passing ended in a short swipe of Dean’s hand through the bottom of his hair. “Bam,” Dean proclaimed, “all done. Look at me, doin’ all this _Steel Magnolias_ shit.”

“You’re the best,” Roman said, turning around slightly to look at Dean, his new braid swinging and landing with a slight thud in the middle of his back. “I love you so much.”

“Love you too,” Dean said in return, kissing Roman on the cheek before wrapping his arms around Roman’s middle. “You know, there is kind of a bright side to me doing your hair.”

“And what is that?” Roman asked, placing his hands over Dean’s.

“If I ever decide to go all Wyatt Family and grow all this out, I’ll be the most handsomest redneck ever.”


End file.
